Hands
by punifa
Summary: Sherlock hates hands. Except for John's. - DISCONTINUED.
1. Chapter 1

***Rating will most likely change with later chapters. This is my first time doing Sherlock's perspective, and it's just as hard to write as I expected. If anything feels off, please point it out!**

***Also, the next chapter will not be up until after my finals are over and done with, so it may take a while for this to update!**

I hate hands.

I hate Molly's hands, how they flit and flutter in the air, how they toy with her hair, how she slathers them with synthetic creams – I can always smell them. At least they can efficiently dissemble a body.

I hate Mycroft's hands, how they're only good for pushing a button on an intercom or twirling his umbrella with purposeful flamboyance.

I hate Anderson's hands; incompetent, contaminating. And Sally's, with their disruptive, prying fingers. John's girlfriends', how they cling, cling to John, his arms, his hands.

John's hands. They are different; large, strong, always moving with purpose, always efficient. As quick to kill (for others. For _me_) as to cure. Sometimes they touch me; my shoulder, my arm, and once – thrillingly – the back of my neck. They always smell of medical-grade soap and tea; occasionally of gunpowder and metal. Mycroft told me that the left used to tremble. It's stopped since he met me. I stopped it.

I watch them now; he is sitting in his chair, cradling a well-worn book in his palms. Approximately every five pages he lifts his right-index finger to his thin lips, flattens his pink tongue over the tip, before turning to the next page. I watch him read 52 pages, lick his finger nine times, before he looks up, dark eyes clashing with mine. I don't look away and he blinks.

"What is it?"

"Your hands."

"What about them?"

"I like them."

He smiles at that, turns back to his book. "Well you can't have them." There is silence then, tiny smile still on John's lips. When he licks his finger eight pages later, I speak.

"May I examine them?"

He looks up again, stares for a moment before deftly slipping a marker between the pages and setting the book on the coffee table. He walks over and settles beside me on the couch, raising his hands palms-up, complying because this must just be another one of those strange things that his flatmate _does_. Maybe he thinks it's for a case.

And so John lets me do it; he lets me softly grip his left wrist and turn his palm towards me. I hold it up to my eyes and rake them over it, memorizing every ridge, every scar, every tiny feature. It's still faintly golden from his time in Afghanistan, lightly calloused from manual labor. His fingernails are meticulously clean, cut short so they don't tear holes in the latex gloves that have left his hands slightly dry. His lifeline is broken – Afghanistan killed him, left his life bare, dull, meaningless; and then he met me. All superstition, of course, one of the rare superfluous musings that enters my head when I am bored, and the only one that I won't delete. I bring each finger in turn to my eye, burning the whorls of his prints into my memory. He's missing two on his left hand – burned them off grabbing the muzzle of a hot gun.

I slide my palm around his hand – the skin on the back is so warm, a fragile barrier restraining his pumping blood. My other fingers drop onto his palm, trace the shattered line stretched across it, lingering on the break. I think – I could have imagined it – that his breath catches when I follow the same path with the edge of my nail. There is a ragged scar on his thumb that holds my attentions – it's old; difficult to determine the cause. When I brush over it for a fourth time John chuckles softly.

"Fishing hook. I was eleven. Tried to stitch it up myself."

I feel my lips curve upwards and I resume stroking his palm with my nails, and then it's unmistakable; his breath cuts off halfway through and he shivers lightly. But it's just a reaction to the sensation; not to me. I move them in a slow drag to his wrist. His heart is accelerated above its average, calm rate, but it's still well within the normal range. I'm pushing the boundary now; the limit on how long I can defend this as an experiment.

I probably shatter any experimental pretense when I yank his wrist up and press it to my mouth. I expect him to pull away. But John is so wonderfully unpredictable. He lets me stay, and I feel his pulse flutter faster against my lips. John's heart rate is normally fifty-five beats-per-minute. Right now it's at seventy, and when I part my lips and breathe against his blood-heated skin it spikes up to 90. His breath is catching audibly, beautifully, on every exhale. My own pulse rises as I slide my lips up onto his palm. He still doesn't pull away, not even when I flick out my tongue, catch salt and soap and the musk of his old book. I chase the taste over his life-line and up to his index finger, pressing my tongue into the bluntness of his nail; he groans softly and I feel it from my teeth to my toes. When I suck his finger down to the first knuckle, tongue swirling around to feel the shorts hairs sprouted there, his hand flies into my hair, curves to the back of my skull.

I slip off of that finger and take the middle two into my mouth, working my tongue in between them; this time his groan cracks, spikes an octave, elongates into a _moan._ I look up and he has his head pressed into the sofa, face red and filmed with sweat, breaths coming in short little bursts through his nostrils. I pull off once more and his fingers are slightly swollen. Gorgeous.

I bring his other hand up, because the right is always different from the left and I want to see if I can taste his saliva on the tip of the index finger. I stroke my thumb slowly over his - and then he lurches back into the far arm of the sofa, hands digging into the cushions, dark eyes blown wide as he stares at me in – is that disgust? Fear? The emotions flit over his features too quickly for me to pin down. My eyes follow him as he rises unsteadily and walks into the kitchen. I hear the tap turn on – it starts whistling, so he has the hot water running on its own. I can hear him scrubbing; the tap switches off and there's the sound of fabric dragging roughly over skin.

John stomps over to the door and yanks it open, tearing his coat off the hook on his way. I tilt my head back and look at him, and he freezes for a moment, eyes catching mine. Finally I can pin down his expression. Bewildered.

"I'm going out," he says with forced steadiness, and then the door slams shut and I'm left with the taste of soap on my tongue.


	2. Chapter 2

***Sorry this took so long. I started writing this chapter from John's point of view, but it didn't want to work for me, so I had to trash it and start from scratch. **

***The next chapter likely _will_ be from John's perspective. Also, I'm looking to re-title this, so if you have any suggestions feel free to pass them by me.**

Corpses' hands are better than most; they don't flinch, don't tuck away into pockets (unless they've been stuffed into one); they just sit there, exuding information. This one is depressingly dull; left hand, young woman's, not her dominant. Ring finger sawn off right up against the last knuckle. Young, already divorced once, engaged to a rich, older man (earrings are far above an office workers' salary); jealous ex-husband confronted her; ligature marks on the throat, broken purple creases in the sensitive skin – very familiar, from examining my own throat – from a scarf. Finger was removed post-mortem to get at the ring – the heat in her office had been cranked, caused her fingers to swell, making the ring temporarily impossible to remove. He was desperate.

"John." I rise, snapping the latex gloves off, crushing them into a ball and thrusting them in his direction. He stares at my outstretched hand as if I'm holding a needle, then tentatively plucks the gloves from my hand, swiftly dropping them into his pocket before pulling out his own thick black ones and swiftly tugging them on. Not because of the cold; he's hiding them from me. I wish he wouldn't - though perhaps I shouldn't have summoned him to the crime scene with the request that he "_lend me a hand."_

I've hardly seen his hands all week. They're always shoved into pockets or into his gloves, or sat upon; like he's frightened I might eat them. But that's not it; I just want to _taste_ them again, preferably outside, when it's even colder than this; warm them up with my tongue so I can hear his breath go reedy and watch them throw steam into the air when I release them.

Lestrade breaks into my thoughts, voice gruff and much too loud beside me. "What have you got, then, Sherlock?" He taps his fingers impatiently on his arm – his hands are bearable, they file paperwork correctly, direct his unruly team well – while I turn away from him and to John.

"Look at her finger, John – or lack of. Removed post-mortem, yes?" John avoids my gaze as he ducks down to the body, peering at the stump, lifting her hand in his palm.

"Bit hard to say. If so then it was very soon after." He rises and tucks his hands behind his back, out of my sight but not, as I'm sure he hopes, out of my mind. I decide that I don't mind the gloves; it would be exciting to peel them back millimeters at a time, to slip one of my own fingers underneath and trap it tight between soft leather and warm flesh.

"Sherlock." Lestrade again. I turn, spout out my observations; tell him to text me if I've missed anything (I haven't). Turn back to John.

"Dinner?" He looks apprehensive, hands folding into his pockets now, looking up from beneath his lashes. He's silent for a moment, wets his lips, and breathes deeply.

"Sure." Resignation. I smile nonetheless, turn and walk and I know he'll follow; he always does. Like we're bound together - leashed? That's not the right word. Tangled, our lives knotted together in a hectic, inseparable frenzy that no one can undo and that even I can't quite understand. He came back that night a week ago, after all (in the middle of the night, because it was well below freezing and he's far too polite to bother any of his friends at that hour, means to modest to rent a hotel room) but he didn't have to stay. Certainly no one else would have. Dear, dear unexpected John.

* * *

><p>We end up at Angelo's, as always, ever-present candle flickering in the silence between us. His fingers curl around the fork and raise steady, measured bites to his lips, tongue slipping briefly between them to wipe away the tiny amounts of sauce that cling to the corners of his mouth. He stares resolutely at his plate most of the time, his gaze occasionally shifting to my full plate, a frown pulling at the corners of his eyes.<p>

I decide that I can be unexpected, too; I pluck my fork from the table and spear a square of ravioli. John's eyes follow the fork's path, widening when I tuck it and the food into my mouth. I look up at him, chew very deliberately, and swallow. He shakes his head, shadow of a smile on his lips.

"Technically we're still on a case, you know." He's trying not to sound pleased.

"Very dull one, though." I place another pointed bite in my mouth, and a full grin stretches his lips.

"You're impossibly confusing." His tongue slides out again, moving between his lips in a slow, thoughtful drag that inexplicably seems _unfair._

"So are you."

John chuckles, lips slipping just a bit upwards, revealing straight white teeth and oh – I like his mouth. It's not just the hands, then. He's shaking his head again, staring at me as if I've said something strange.

"I'm just John Watson. What about me could possibly confuse _you_?" He stares at me expectantly, as if I should offer an answer. And I could; your hands, John; your mouth, John; everything about _you_, John. That you stay even when I do things that are certainly not good, that you still smile at me afterwards and don't brand me a freak – not that it gets to me, but I think it might, if it came from you. I say none of this, though, and simply return to my food, while John gapes at me.

When we leave the restaurant John doesn't bury his hands into gloves or pockets, even though it's grown quite cold. They hang loosely by his sides, almost tauntingly, sleeve shifting up just enough to reveal a speck of red sauce on his wrist. His tongue peeks out again, tossing a little puff of white into the air with its heat – his lips must be dry; he licks them so often. Probably rough and scratchy, and warm, oh, they would be warm. I could bite them until they well up with scarlet droplets and then lick away the true taste of him – but that would not be allowed, not even if he's stopped hiding his hands and is standing close to me again.

We climb into a cab and as it rolls off John's phone chimes. He flips it open, smiles, then fires away a response and turns his grin towards me.

"Going out for drinks with some of the Yard. You're free to come, if you'd like." He knows my answer already, but he offers every time, ever so polite. I shake my head and he feeds altered directions to the cabbie, a pub close to Baker Street. He settles back into his seat, still facing me.

"Lestrade says 'thank you.' They already pinned the guy." A smirk crawls onto my lips – the one that John teases me for; self-satisfied, he says.

"Of course they did." Would have anyways; the crime wasn't exactly strung with complexity and Lestrade isn't incompetent, but I sped things up a bit.

The cab crawls to a stop in front of the pub. John climbs out and twists round. "Try not to burn the flat down before I get home, yeah?" He lingers for a moment and then walks away, disappearing into a sea of boisterous noise.

* * *

><p>Five hours and two horrifically failed experiments later (I've hidden the kettle for now but John will surely notice tomorrow) I hear feet on the stairs, shuffling, and then a loud curse. John is intoxicated and has just caught his toe on the nail that sticks out of the fifth step. He's not wearing shoes – must have bet them away in a friendly gamble; he'll get them back tomorrow.<p>

He comes stumbling into the living room, teetering dangerously and leaning heavily into the doorframe. He looks around but doesn't seem to see me on the sofa. "Sh'lock?" He sounds, through his slurring, determined. I raise one hand into the air.

"Over here, John." He nods, but even that seems to take too much effort because it's quickly followed by a groan. He makes his way to the sofa slowly, clutching furniture as he goes. I move my legs out of the way just in time as he falls heavily into the cushions, head rolling around to face me, drunken grin plastered over his lips. He licks them slowly, shifting his whole body so that his front is turned towards me.

"How much have you had to drink, John?" He giggles and leans forward, lips coming within six inches of my face – they reeked of the coppery smell of cheap beer, but still, they were _close_, glistening from his blasphemed tongue.

"Guess."

"You tend to hold your alcohol well, so I'd say much more than is advisable in five hours time." I reach out to push him away, because he's dangerously close to tipping over, but his hand darts out and wraps around my wrist, dark eyes lighting up.

"Need to… this is retri… Retri…"He screws up his face and grasps my wrist with his other hand as well. My heart thumps jerkily.

"Retribution?"

He beams up at me, nods once. "Yeah, _payback._" He raises my hand in front of his face and staggers forward, lips brushing the tips of my fingers; _soft_, oh like warm crushed velvet, not dry at all, smoothing back and forth until my fingers tingle so madly that they shake. Is this what I did to him? Why in the world would he _run away_?

John's lips part and I don't even mind that I smell the sickly-sweet reek of alcohol because his _tongue_, just the tip, skating along the pads of my fingers, rough and wet and dizzyingly hot. His name bubbles from my lips but is drowned when he groans and drops my hand, slumping into the couch, eyes fluttering shut.

When my breathing has returned to normal I lower his head onto a pillow and drag one of Mrs. Hudson's quilts over him, leaving a glass of water and an aspirin beside him for when he wakes up.


	3. Chapter 3

I don't expect gestures of sympathy from my flat mate. I never expect tea when it's cold or silence when my programmes are showing; so I certainly don't expect to wake up with the most spectacular hangover of my life to find my head on a pillow, a blanket tucked tight around me, and a tepid glass of water along with a small white pill on the table next to my head.

Living with Sherlock and darting about from case-to-case with him might not turn me into a Consulting Detective myself, but I've certainly learned to observe. The pillow, blanket, water and pill _could_ be from Mrs. Hudson, but she would never cover me with a quilt that has a great big chunk burnt off the edge, and she would have used one of her own glasses (no telling what might be in ours). Unless benevolent fairies had broken into our flat without Sherlock noticing, this was his doing.

Of course though, I can't complain – spectacular hangover and all – so I examine the pill briefly to make sure that it really _is_ an aspirin, then I pop it into my mouth and chase it down with the water, grimacing at the warmth of it. I settle back onto the pillow, covering my eyes against the dim light filtering through the blinds, and wait for the aspirin to kick in.

Eventually I'm able to rise without the world tipping _too_ far and I pad into the kitchen. As I search for the kettle I realize that it's far too quiet for this time of day – or still, rather. Like the whole flat is sleeping, which would be new; I hardly ever find Sherlock asleep. And that must be what he's doing – his coat is hanging on the door along with his navy scarf, and I don't hear the soft clatter of laptop keys or the chime of his phone.

There's an opportunity here, and I've missed enough of those to not pass this one up. I cease my search for the strangely absent kettle, then step as quietly as I can back into the living room, stopping hesitantly before his barely-ajar bedroom door. I've been in there once before, to retrieve his phone, and it was horrendously messy; even his bed had been buried under a mass of books and (likely stolen) case files. I hold my breath and nudge the door open halfway –

And he _is_ sleeping. At least, I think he is, but it's a bit hard to tell because he has his fingers shoved in between his lips, pink tongue curling lazily around each pale digit; his eyes are gently closed and the smallest, softest grunts reach my ears. This is something very private, something incredibly intimate, that I should not be seeing. _Look away, John Watson, look away._

But I can't; god help me, I _can't_. I'm stuck, the same way I was when Sherlock, for all intents and purposes, _blew_ my fingers – I got away then, managed to stop thinking about his tongue (which is sliding slowly along the tips of his fingers), got my hands to stop tingling whenever he opened his lips. But watching him do the same to his _own_ fingers, hearing the soft, wet noises of his tongue, seeing the palest flush of pink across his cheekbones, is so incorrectly captivating that my legs have locked.

When his free hand trails down his chest, underneath the waistband of his baggy pajama bottoms, my legs fail me and I sink to my knees, still unable to part my eyes from the scene unfolding before me – Sherlock Holmes, unraveling himself, face turning into his pillow, mouth opening wide, grunts no longer soft but heavy and harsh. I watch him bite down on his fingers, hear the strangled noise that erupts from him as he jerks and shudders, then he deflates into the sheets, a contented sigh billowing from his lips.

After a few moments of watching him lie there I realize the danger of my position and finally force my legs to move, rising stiffly and scuffling into the living room. I spot the newspaper, rolled up neatly and placed by the door, and I cross over and pick it up, making my way to my chair with it in hand and sitting down heavily. I open the paper and try to read, making my way disjointedly through several stories and retaining none of them.

After an indefinable amount of time I hear Sherlock's door swing open, the soft _woosh_ of his robe as he steps into the living room. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise as he stops behind me, yawning widely.

"Anything interesting?" He drawls, leaning forward, one hand on the back of my chair. I swallow thickly and fold the paper up, handing it to him, expecting him to leave. But of _course_ he doesn't. No, he leans forward even more, right hand slipping onto my shoulder in a way that could be an accident but, knowing him, is thoroughly deliberate (and he didn't wash that hand, and I try desperately not to breathe through my nose but it's far too late and I catch a heavy scent, like wet wood in summer sunlight, deep and intimate and I force myself to breathe through my mouth).

Sherlock manages to flip through the paper single-handed, the bottom edge of it held in place on my chest while he grasps it by the top. His other hand remains on my shoulder, pinky drifting slowly up my neck, coming to rest over my pulse. "Hm…" He rifles through the pages, reading the articles impossibly fast, and all the while my breaths come in stunted little gasps. Surely he's finished by now; he's been stopped on the last page for more than five minutes, and I know that he has absolutely no interest in the interview typed out on the flimsy paper. His pinky is pressing slightly against my pulse, probably feeling how it batters swift and hard through my veins. Finally he lowers the paper, but only to stare at the side of my head. I hear him give a tentative sniff, feel the small rush of air when he breathes back out. He does it again, nose nearly brushing the hair over my temple, and chuckles softly.

"You smell like cigarettes. And alcohol."

I clear my throat, stretching my legs out with the intent of rising. "I'll take the first shower, then." I begin to lift from the seat, skin buzzing where his pinky nail drags down my neck, but his hand squeezes gently on my shoulder and pulls me back.

"Just a moment. It's nice. The cigarettes." Sherlock sniffs again.

"I thought you quit," I say shakily, flexing my fist on my knee.

"Doesn't mean I don't miss it." He inhales one more time, holds it, releases it very slowly from his lungs, a small groan floating out on his breath, then his hand slides from my shoulder and onto the back of the chair. I rise before he can change his mind, even though his hand had hardly been restraining, and make my way quickly into the bathroom, resisting the abominable urge to glance round and look at his face, see if it matches that rough exhale.

I turn the water in the shower to a harshly cold temperature, freezing the heat that's crept over my skin. I shouldn't be standing here shivering, scarcely missing my tongue with my chattering teeth; but I am and there's only ever one reason for a shower this cold and that reason is shriveling swiftly between my legs. Even once it's disappeared I can't forget that it was there in the first place, incredibly, insistently _there._

I stand there, head pressed against the tile, until hypothermia becomes a fairly feasible possibility. I twist the knob with numb fingers, finally letting some heat spill from the showerhead where it prickles sharply against my skin, even more so when I scrub myself down.

When I leave the shower I sniff at my arms, skin tingling madly, and find no traces of smoke, just the sharp smell of cheap soap. I pull on a robe, hesitate at the door knob before bursting into the hallway and nearly dashing into my room. I'm just about to shut the door when Sherlock appears, leaning against the doorjamb. The tingling in my skin intensifies until it's a humming, audible in my ears. I try to ask what he needs but my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, and he's already started speaking anyways.

"Did you run out the hot water? You were in there for an hour." I blink and shake my head mutely, watching how he shifts his legs in discomfort. I struggle to unstick my tongue and my words come out thick and heavy.

"Plenty left." He nods but remains in place, eyes narrowing slightly, gaze shifting over my skin. His lips part as if he's about to ask a question, but he must have already found his answer because he nods again, turns on his heel and steps down the hall and into the bathroom.

I have to sit on my bed for a long while to let the humming in my skin (which steadily works its way downwards, condensing in a fluttery mass just below my stomach) settle down, then I pull on clean clothes and tug my hands through my hair, wondering what the hell it is that Sherlock Holmes is trying to do to me.

* * *

><p><em>Notes at the bottom this time, yeah! So sorry this took so much time; I'm a very slow writer because as hard as I try to plan out the plot and whatnot something always ges wrong while I'm writing it out. I hope you enjoyed it nevertheless. Also thanks to <strong>LoveAllTheSherlocks <strong>as well as_ **_Splendiferously _**_from tumblr_ _for doing a first read-through/beta of this chapter._


	4. Chapter 4

There will be a retaliation. There's _always_ retaliation, whether its leather gloves and avoidance or a door locked tight for hours. At this point it's only been the latter, but something more will come; though judging by John's increasingly hectic pacing it will soon escalate.

The retaliation, of course, will be towards me. Impulses are rarely an issue for me, though in the case of John Watson that's rapidly becoming another matter entirely. I fell asleep with the taste of him drying on my fingers, and woke up to it fading on my tongue, my own essence plastered to my pants. I must have made noise, must have disturbed him; I slept with my door barely cracked – in case he woke up in the night and was ill – and when I rose it was opened wider by several inches. I left the room intending to behave as usual – scan the paper; take a swift shower before checking for inquiries on my web site.

But John upended everything by rising before me – I had expected him to sleep for far longer, given the amount he'd had to drink. When I came out he already had the paper spread between his (sturdy, steady, _glorious_) hands. I meant to simply take it from him, perhaps allow myself to indulge in a brush of our knuckles during the exchange – then I smelled it, beneath the heaviness of the alcohol: smoke. John and cigarettes, my (new) favorite indulgence synthesized with an old one.

I had to be closer after that – I masqueraded reading long after I had finished in order to continue inhaling that faint trace of tobacco mingled with the supple warmth of his skin; dared to let my little finger find his (heightened) pulse. If I could subtract the alcohol I would bottle that scent and wear it as cologne – perhaps that could be an experiment; I could take some of the soap from the clinic, use my favorite brand of cigarettes, some earl grey tea and a dash of gunpowder for good measure.

I've distracted myself again – he's stopped pacing and is likely standing in front of his door, hand wavering over the brass knob. He'll be thinking hard, teeth burrowed into his bottom lip –

He's decided. I hear the _snick_ of his door latch as it slides from its chamber, his bare feet padding softly over the runner in the hall. And there's a thought; John's bare feet, littlest toe nestled tight against the next from his restrictive work shoes, skin on top smooth, paler than the rest of him; on the bottom coarse. It would be a delight to have it slide up my calf, rasp over my knee and onto my thigh, though I think I would still prefer his dexterous hands above all.

The stairs creak as John bears his weight upon them and I settle into a pose of perfect pensiveness, knees drawn up beneath my chin, fingers tented in front of my lips, eyes falling shut just as he descends the final step and rounds the corner.

He falters, stands absolutely still, quiet but for his audible breathing. Then his knuckles pop as he flexes his fingers (I shiver just barely) and he swallows. I hear the soft sound of him wetting his lips.

"We need to talk." There's gravel and tension in his voice, the retaliation I'm anticipating loaded behind his words. I keep my eyes closed and wait.

"Don't ignore me, Sherlock."

"You said we have to talk. I'm waiting for you to start, naturally."

He laughs – clipped, jerky, more from exasperation and nerves than from mirth – and moves into the living room. My eyes fly open when the couch dips as he sits beside me. I have to swallow twice and clear my throat before I can speak.

"What needs to be discussed?" My eyes are trained on the mantel, so I do not see when he moves his hand with the precision and stealth of a military man. When he lays it on the fabric stretched tight over my knee a soft, high-pitched grunt leaps from my throat and fire sweeps up and down my entire body. I tense so tightly that my muscles quiver, and he leaves his hand there, fingers burning through my trousers, eyes trained on my (heated, surely very flushed) face. I let my eyes fall shut but that only serves to call the rest of my senses to attention; his breathing measured, each exhale swimming with the sharp scent of winter-mint mouthwash. Hand no longer simply laying but gripping my kneecap delicately, an unconscious action that seems to have caused my vocal cords to tighten to the extent that the most minor of vibrations might cause them to snap. I let my head fall forward, just enough to relax my throat so that I can speak, and even then I can only manage on tremulous syllable.

"John…" His hand slides off of me with a short rush of noise, coming to rest millimeters away on the couch cushion, and suddenly my leg feels cold.

"_That_, Sherlock. You've been staring at me all week. At my hands. You sniffed me because I smelled like stale cigarettes. And before that…" He sucks in a breath and shifts, leaning forward and peering at my face. "You're blushing, too," he murmurs with a shade of disbelief, nibbling at his lip and raising his hand slowly – _glacially_ slowly – towards my face. He stops a breath away from my cheeks and I kill the groan in my chest before it can spill out and spook him back to his senses; he's like a wild animal, curious, tentative, and so I sit there and fix my gaze on the map-like ridges of his fingertips.

"Sherlock…" John's hand traces the air around my face, curving around my ear, tilting beneath my jaw and _oh, touch me, John, please, your palm, your fingertips, even just the tips of your nails._ "When you said you liked my hands…"

I wet my lips and turn towards him, preparing myself to speak, possibly to refute the truth that he's surely realized by now – what could I tell him?_ 'I'm conducting a study on the level of astringency of various medical workers' hands. It's for a case.'_

While I'm snared by my thoughts John's fingers alight on my neck and pull back just as quickly. He glances at my face and I realize that my mouth has dropped open and my eyes have gone so wide that they start to water. I snap my mouth shut and breathe through my nose, blood thrumming through my neck and _he touched my pulse_, for the briefest of moments felt at the life rushing through my veins.

John settles his hand on my shoulder and I bite into my lip – too hard; stinging scarlet wells up, dripping hot onto the skin beneath my mouth. John gasps softly and cups my jaw with his other hand.

I am overwhelmed - the rasp of his skin on my unshaven face, each finger forming to my jaw, the slight nervous dampness of his palm. His thumb rolls gently over my lip, tremoring so slightly that it's like the flutter of tiny, fragile wings. That tiny flutter skitters down my body and tickles dangerously at my groin. When I gasp John's thumb slides into my mouth, gliding over my inner lip. I freeze. So does he.

"Sherlock…" John's hand drags down my shoulder, coming to rest at my elbow, and his voice is so soft, almost but not quite the same voice he uses to approach children (I'm no longer supposed to speak to them until John has calmed them down). He curls his fingers under my chin, thumb still tucked between my gums and my lip, and tugs my face forward so that our eyes are level.

"Should I stop?"

I attribute my inability to form a proper response to the thumb in my mouth, but that hardly accounts for the half-strangled noise that works its way out of my throat, vibrating into the air between us.

"Dear god." John's eyes slip shut, his nostrils flare softly as he breathes, then he presses his lips into a line and re-opens his eyes, staring dark into mine. There's something almost calculating in them, and he lets his thumb slip completely into my mouth, tracing from my canines back to my molars, brushing along my inner cheeks before coming to rest softly on my tongue, the taste of cheap bar soap predominant but beneath that the warm spice of his aftershave. In the same moment his left hand travels down my arm and shoves into the sleeve of my robe, lightly gripping my wrist and gliding up my bare skin. He drags his palm slowly up and down my forearm, sending shocks of pleasure into my tensed stomach and between my legs.

His thumb shifts, pulling back slightly before pushing further along my tongue and I unconsciously begin to suck and it's _glorious – _the soft wet noises and my own gasp when he removes his thumb in favor of his first two fingers, the scrape of the nail on his littlest finger against my cheek, palm stroking slowly up my arm, his suddenly harsh breathing and blown pupils – all of it so _satisfying_ in the pit of my stomach.

"God, you're…" John retracts his hand from my sleeve, leaving the skin singing, and weaves it into my hair. I hum softly and suddenly he's _close_, chest pressed to my knees, pushing me into the arm of the couch. "You're _wild_, you're…" His fingers push through my hair and I moan and so does he, softly, and again when my teeth graze his knuckles.

"_Jesus._" John's fingers pull noisily from my mouth and he stares at them, the skin blushed and slightly swollen and glistening. Something flashes through his eyes and before I can register it properly his hand tightens in my hair; for a moment I think he might punch me, but then he pulls my head back and trails his slicked fingers down my throat.

My throat is sensitive, almost always bound by a scarf, and his fingertips paint goose bumps over my adams apple, coax a rough noise from my vocal cords. He pushes against my knees until they part, leaning between them and relaxing his grip on my hair. My head tilts toward the top of his as he stares down at my chest, then he reaches out and runs his hand over my pectorals (through my shirt, which dampens the sensation) and down my ribs. He continues downward until his fingers curl under the edge of my shirt, pulling it up swiftly, cloth whispering over my sensitized skin. He releases the shirt and flattens his palm on my stomach.

My muscles contract under the touch and my back lifts from the cushions, pressing harder into the thirty-seven-degree-heat that's igniting the hardly-touched nerves packed beneath my skin. He slides his hand up the center of my chest, head still ducked down so that I can't see his face – but his hand does not tremble in the slightest, not as it angles over my ribs, fingertips dragging roughly over - over…

Goose bumps spring over my chest and my nipple – John is touching my nipple, _squeezing_ it, rolling it gently between his thumb and forefinger; the room fills with noise and it takes me a moment to realize that the sounds are pouring from my mouth, repetitive, mono-syllabic, "_Oh, John, John, your hands, more, John, more._"

John's nails scrape over my sternum and I arch up even further. He slips this hand around my chest, caressing between my shoulders before traveling down, knuckles rolling over the small of my back; my hips cant up but there is nothing, just the barely-there friction of my pants. John unfurls his fingers and drags his nails roughly over the skin and my hips strain up again – and suddenly the pants are enough. He does it a second time, and I have to grit my teeth and close my eyes; a third and the string of words return, my hips rolling now, seeking the (almost non-existent but still too, too much) drag of my pants over my erection.

John's head drops onto my shoulder, lips skimming my neck as he rasps my name. One set of fingers angles down, dipping beneath my pants, and the others rake up my back. Fire cascades down my spine and behind my groin; my body goes rigid as heat thrums from where John's fingertips are scratching softly, scraping, and where his lips glide against my pulse over and over. I finally do something with my own hands, which have been gripping the cushions almost painfully, wrapping them around John's shoulders, pulling my body up until I collide with his.

John gasps against my throat, then the sound morphs into a soft growl; he digs his nails into the flesh of my buttock and the fire heads to a point where I rock (when did I start doing that?) gently against him.

One of my hands curls tight into John's short hair, and he digs even deeper; a white-hot pulse sweeps once through my body and I'm trembling; twice and my fingers pull so hard on John's hair that he hisses softly; three times and I shatter, gripping him with my knees as I come in waves.

When my body falls back into the cushions John groans, mindlessly shoving one of his now freed hands into his own pants, pressing his forehead tight to mine as he empties himself with a few rough strokes. He melts against me, lying there silently until he catches his breath, then he brings a hand up to my face (and it smells like _me_, _my_ sweat, _my_ skin). His thumb rolls once more over my slack lip, and I must have bitten it open again because there is a small metallic burst on my tongue. His eyes go soft and he lets his hand slip away, replacing it with his own lips.

John kisses weakly, a gentle, almost cautious brushing of our mouths that ends before I can think to reciprocate, his head drooping heavily onto my chest. I shift underneath him, pants sticking to me uncomfortably (twice in one day, and it hardly ever happens once). He grumbles gently in his sleep, curling his (could I call them magical? Unworldly? Certainly extraordinary) hands around my chest. I lay there with him in a shroud of comfort and slight disbelief.

* * *

><p><em>As always, huge apologies for the wait, but at least this chapter is longer, right? And it also changed the rating ;p Thanks to my lovely betas <strong>Splendiferously<strong> and **Hollydermovoi** from tumblr, as well as the very thorough_ _**Aziith.** Hope you enjoyed it, and though I make no promises I think the next chapter shouldn't take quite so long to produce :)_


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